


Panic - Plan

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s02e14 Mardi Gras Beads + Chair, Gen, George Eads Appreciation Week, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22908949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: Missing scene and tag for 2x14: Mardi Gras Beads + Chair.
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 62
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I missed my chance to post this on Mardi Gras (in my defense, I get a little forgetful after working a 14hr shift) but good news for you, you'll only have to wait until tonight for the second chapter!
> 
> Thanks to an anonymous friend who wanted to know if there was whump after riding through a hurricane in a porta-potty! Surprisingly (or maybe not, after all, it's me) there was a little physical and emotional whump

“Oof!” The cry is drawn from Jack’s lips as he slams into the solid polymer shell that Mac said would protect them from the storm. 

Porta-potty. Call it what it is. 

Jack’s gonna die in a hurricane, halfway around the world, listening to Mac lecture him on portable toilet facts. 

In terms of ways he thought he would die, that one holds a surprisingly high place on the list, but he thought it would have been his idea, not Mac’s. And he half-thought he would be alone. And full of holes. Praying that Mac would find him in time. And that if he didn't, Jack would at least have enough time left to tell Mac it wasn't his fault. Because it wouldn't be. Mac would have done everything he could to save Jack. It's just that Jack's need to protect Mac would have outweighed everything else and led him to this end.  


He's not alone though, and it surprisingly wasn't one of his ideas that brought them here. 

Jack's still not entirely sure what happened in the house. Mac impeding the flow of traffic, spinning in a slow circle in the middle of the great hall, the way he did when he was coming up with a brilliant, yet ridiculous plan to save the world, except not. Something off. 

The kid was spooked when Jack caught up with him, that's the only way to describe it. A wild look in his eye.   


“I’m allowed to be wrong once in a while, aren’t I?” Mac yells to be heard over the raging storm. Despite his reassurances to Jack that they are not going to die, Mac's voice holds a frenetic energy and if Jack were less kind in his description maybe a trace of hysteria.  


“Yeah, but this time might be the last time.” And it might be reasonable, that maybe if Jack were more honest with himself, he would admit that perhaps Mac is conceivably feeding off of his own panic. But it's not that he's scared to die trapped in this dark box, many of his nightmares look like this, it's the idea of Mac dying in this box with him. It's seeing Mac this alarmed and not knowing what caused it.  


Jack’s head snaps backwards, striking the wall with a thud that leaves him seeing stars as their haven, or maybe prison is more accurate, hurtles forward. 

He watches Mac’s mind race, the same way it did in the ballroom. The kid’s eyes dart through their small, dark prison looking for something, anything to protect them against the bruising thuds from bouncing along the soaked sodden ground. Calculating their trajectory in the storm and where they might end up. Estimating the probability of surviving this storm, the advantages of remaining put, well relatively put even as their lifeboat crosses the island. 

And the weight of Jack’s words. Harsh and accusing. Jack observes the exact moment those barbed words get their hooks into Mac and regrets saying them. 

Staying in the house, at the gala wasn’t an option. Mac said they were a whisker away from getting made.  


Remaining inside, despite the safety from the storm, left them vulnerable. In the clutches of two powerful generals with whole armies at their disposal and slightly more firepower than Jack had on him. Mac’s decision at least gave them a fighting chance and protected the hundreds of innocent lives at the party. 

Mac is thrown sideways, crashing into Jack, his forehead clips Jack’s chin. He tries to scramble away, guilt coloring his actions, like a kid trying to hide. To avoid the eyes of a parent he feels like he disappointed and Jack can't help but feel like Mac's childhood was filled with too many opportunities to perfect that lookbut a lurch sends him collapsing against Jack again. 

Jack knows he has to make this right.

There’s a feeling of weightlessness, the ground disappearing from beneath them and they’re falling. Jack wraps his arms around Mac, protecting his head and cradling it again his chest. Ignoring the way Mac’s shoulder digs into his ribs. 

Falling into the unknown. Off a cliff and onto jagged rocks that will smash the protective shell or onto a copse of trees that will pierce the plastic and skewer them in place. Or maybe into the rolling waves of the angry sea. 

It’s not the fall that kills you. It’s the sudden stop.

Jack has just enough time to wonder if he should brace for impact or go limp when their descent is aborted with a jolt. The deceleration slams Mac into his chest, driving the air from his lungs with a gasp. His head cracks against the wall again. His vision wavers then goes dark and the noise of the storm and a familiar voice fades with his consciousness. 

* * *

Someday, Mac is going to disappear to some island in the South Pacific for at least a month. Rent a luxurious overwater bungalow, or find some mostly deserted island and hang up a hammock. It doesn’t matter which. The most important thing will be that it’s quiet except for the waves and the chattering of monkeys and the warbling of birds.

And Jack’s rambling commentary about going all Swiss Family Robinson and building an elaborate treehouse in between their spearfishing dives. Because of course, Jack is coming with him. One, because even though the idea of quiet and isolation sounds appealing, and the time to think without distraction fills him with longing, he’d last about a day before boredom started setting in without Jack egging him on to create a coconut radio or singing the Gilligan’s Island theme song. And two, as if Jack would let him just disappear for longer than a day without mounting a search for him. Jack would move in one banana tree down the beach, quietly, stealthily keeping an eye on his partner and might get away with being there for a few hours before Mac, knowing his partner’s tells would realize he was there. He might let Jack keep up the illusion for a few more hours, just to see how long Jack can go without talking to him, and stroke his ego a little bit.  


Halfway up a densely foliaged mountain, the elevation levels off and there’s a break in the thick canopy of green leaves. Luscious grounds surround the governmental mansion. Below them, waves crash against the sandy beach. Intense shades of glittering blue as the sun heads towards the horizon. Pink and orange blaze across the sky, gilding the palm trees and the estate. 

Jack stops on the boardwalk, eyes turned skyward. “Storm’s moving in faster than we’d hoped.” 

“This is our only window,” Mac repeats the words from Matty’s debriefing. “If we want actionable intel, with enough time to, you know, act on it, this is our only shot.”

Jack doesn’t say anything more. Makes no additional protests or observations on the rapidly darkening sky as he follows Mac into the house. 

They’ll find the evidence they need and if the storm keeps them from making their exfil they can ride it out with the rest of the party guests in the house. Neither of them has any connection with this part of the world, or this faction of the government. 

Except that it wasn’t that easy. It never is.  


Mac lifts a cellphone from one of the security guards. Plugging in Riley’s USB drive, he overrides the encryption and obtains the blueprints of the house and keeps an ear on the rounding guards' activity. They’re a chatty bunch. It’s almost like having Jack in his ear and he’s in the zone. Digging through the shredded paperwork in the cellar, grabbing handfuls of confettied documents, he almost misses it when the phone buzzes an alert, half-expecting it to be a storm update, and Jack’s picture flashes on the screen along with the orders to terminate on sight.

And no way to alert Jack to the danger. They went in dark, without comms. 

Mac's heart stutters. 

His mind is racing faster than his legs, up the stairs and into the great hall. Eyes scanning for his partner, heart thumping in his chest. A clap of thunder rattles the windows, startling Mac, causing him to jump as though it was gunfire, and the first fat drops of rain splatter against the panes. 

Guests who waited out the storm on the lanai until the last possible second, pour into the house, adding to the chaos. Mac is shoved and jostled as he pushes his way through the snarl of people, craning his head, trying to catch a glimpse of Jack. 

A hand catches his shoulder and Mac turns around, ready to start swinging until he sees it’s his partner.

“We gotta go.”

Jack shakes his head. “Storm’s kickin’ up now. No way ex-fil can make it to us before it’s too bad to fly.”

Mac’s eyes widen and he scans the room again. “We have to go. Now.” 

Jack frowns. “What happened to laying low and waiting out the storm with the rest of the guests?”

“We’re made.” Mac gives the phone in his hand a quick shake.   


“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Jack says, surveying the guests, identifying guards and exit routes. He rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe, maybe a car? Try to outrun the storm, get to the center of the island. It might not be as bad inland.” 

Mac watches one of the guards pull his phone from his pocket, studying the photograph on the screen with a frown. 

He freezes mid-step, eyes darting from the windows to the stairs, across the buffet table and the musicians, he spins, trying to mentally label every potential asset he sees, work through the problem and create a solution but instead his brain buzzes with a flashing warning that Jack is in danger. 

“Keep your head down,” Mac orders as he latches onto Jack’s arm and hustles him through the crowd, like a salmon swimming upstream until they reach the exit. He pushes a protesting Jack out into the storm. 

The rain is coming down sideways. Furiously pounding, falling almost as fast as Mac’s mind discards one idea after the next. Twinkling lights wave dizzily, casting eerie shadows. 

Just off the edge of the verandah is a row of portable sanitation stalls. 

Squinting through the rain, they’re soaked through in minutes, Mac shoves Jack ahead of him, splashing through puddles and around chairs overturned by the wind, into the small shelter. 

“Okay, what’s the plan dude?”

Mac slams the door shut against the wind and latches the handle. “Um, I didn’t get much farther than this.”

“Okay,” Jack nods supportively, going along with Mac’s plan. “You're gonna dismantle this and use the cleaning chemicals to make some sort of knockout gas?”

“No. I mean, this.” Mac gestures at the enclosure. 

Jack’s survey of the tiny room takes less than two seconds. “Like locking ourselves in here and hoping for the best?”

Mac shrugs sheepishly. 

“You okay?” Jack asks, laying his hand against Mac’s forehead. “You coming down with something or hit your head or…”

Mac pushes Jack’s hand away. “It’s not my best plan but we don’t have a lot of options. There are two different generals planning a coup, and at least one of them has your picture.”

“So we ride out a hurricane hiding in a toilet?” Jack has a pained expression on his face. “That don’t exactly have the same badass feeling as riding the lightning.” 

Mac, examining the corners of the plastic for any seams or weaknesses answers absently. “Riding the lightning refers to the electric chair, not like surfing on the electrostatic discharge that occurs when the positive and negative ions in the air meet and cause a release of energy.”

Jack opens his mouth, snarky comment on his tongue when something thumps against the structure and it shudders. His eyes lock onto Mac’s.

“It’s fine. Probably some debris from the wind.”

Jack nods, not looking at all reassured.

“It’s pretty solidly built,” Mac gives two taps against the wall. 

An answering thud rocks the space, throwing Mac hard against Jack, dress shoes slipping on the hard plastic. The porta-potty rocks, teeters precariously before tumbling. Mac’s chin hits the wall that is now the floor, over Jack’s shoulder, snapping his jaw closed and catching the side of his tongue between his teeth. 

The falling turns into rolling. Rocking and rattling, shaking the two men inside like the martini Jack ordered from the bar earlier, as the storm picks up with vengeance. Mac can barely hear Jack’s yells over the wind, the rain and the claps of thunder and the bruising thuds of their bodies striking the walls. 

“What were you thinking, dude?” Jack yells, the end of his sentence warbling in time with the box bouncing against the ground like a skipping stone. “How was this a better idea than just trying our luck in the house? Find a supply closet and hunker down for the long haul?” 

Mac argues. Jack was in danger. It would be only a matter of time before someone caught him, even in a house that size. 

But to be honest, Mac panicked. The raw supplies in the house didn’t come together to form a plan to keep Jack safe and he acted on his base instinct to run and hide and protect his partner. 

“You’re right!” Mac yells back. “It was a bad idea. Probably the worst idea I’ve ever had!” 

* * *

The faucet in the bathroom is leaking again. Bad. He can hear it from the other room. Maybe Mac wants to come over and tinker with it later. Jack will provide the pizza, beer, and commentary.

He’s totally losing his security deposit for this apartment. The number of unauthorized repairs he and Mac have made. At first, it was just easier for Jack to do them himself. He’s handy and since he isn’t young and blond his landlord wasn’t interested in wasting his time in Jack’s apartment. 

And when the guest bedroom became Mac’s room to recover from injuries he couldn’t explain to Bozer, handing Mac a toolbox, or a paperclip and pointing him at a leaky pipe or a faulty outlet was an easy way of keeping the kid occupied in a controlled environment, and kept his toaster and the GTO safe from inquiring minds and inquisitive fingers. 

Now there are so many Mac-hacks in the apartment that Jack can’t risk reporting any maintenance needs to the landlord. Good luck for whoever has to handle his estate once he’s gone. Unless they get Mac in there to dismantle everything, his landlord’s probably going to just wall off the apartment, leave it as a shrine to the crazy old guy with the ratty band t-shirts and really cool cars rather than spend an exorbitant amount making the place livable and up to code again. 

Jack tries to shift aching muscles and joints, he must have fallen asleep in the theater seats the way he’s all curled up and legs are practically in the air. 

His eye twitches. That leak is worse than he thought, it’s dripping against his forehead.

Which makes zero sense unless he collapsed in the tub, which wouldn’t be the first time he’s been grimy and bloodstained and decided passing out in the tub for a few hours would be better than ruining his Egyptian cotton sheets. 

Must have turned the water on at some point too, maybe to wash away the worst of the blood because the floor beneath him is wet and he’s shivering. 

Something soft brushes against his face, then presses against his chin. 

Jack lashes out, fingers closing around the wrist in a tight grip and folding the arm back on itself into a bruising hold meant to break and maim.

A yelp.

“Jack!” Mac yells. “Jack. It’s me. It’s Mac.” 

As suddenly as he grabbed the offending limb, Jack releases it, scrambling to sit up higher as Mac pulls his arm back to his chest. 

“Did I hurt you?” Jack asks, blinking awake.

“Nah, you’re getting soft, old man.”

Jack holds out his hand, palm up. Expectantly.   


“It’s fine,” Mac protests as he turns his wrist over to Jack’s examining fingers. 

Jack’s hand closes around the joint, palpating and searching for injury. He gently prods Mac through a series of range of motion exercises. Flexion and extension of Mac’s wrist and hand, probing for abnormalities. Watching Mac’s face for evidence of pain. Satisfied that he didn’t stress or strain the joint, Jack’s fingers ghost over Mac’s pulse for a moment of additional reassurance, before handing the arm back to its owner. 

“You’ve got a pretty nice shiner there, hoss,” Jack says, reaching out, brushing his fingers against it.

Mac pulls away, gesturing to Jack’s chin. “You’ve got a matching bruise and cut on your jaw and lip. I think that’s where we clunked heads.”

Jack's tongue darts out of his mouth, tapping against his split lip. “Here I was thinking all these stiff sore muscles were cause I’d spent an enjoyable evening with a pretty blonde, no offense hoss, you’re pretty too, and I was just getting too old and sore for some of those extracurricular activities…” Jack waggles his eyebrows.

Mac rolls his eyes, leaning back against the opposite wall. The small enclosure wobbles with the movement.

Jack listens. “Storm stopped?”

“Passed,” Mac looks at his watch, “maybe thirty minutes ago.”

“You think it’s done, or we just in the eye?”

Mac shrugs, flinching a bit with the motion. 

“You take a look outside yet?”

“That’s the other problem,” Mac says, pushing against the door at his back. “door’s stuck.”

“Stuck? Are we wedged against something?” Jack moves forward, scanning the door when the structure teeters again, and Mac closes his eyes against the rocking feeling, hands braced on the floor. Jack freezes, the wobbling slows then stops. 

“Wherever we landed doesn’t feel stable,” Mac whispers as if the motion of speaking will set off the rocking again. “There are some screws near the top. I thought I might be able to pry the roof off, but every time I head in that direction the whole thing shakes. Now that you’re awake you can counterbalance for me.”

They shimmy along the floor, matching each other movement for movement, inch for inch until they reach opposite ends, roof and floor. Mac pulls his knife from his pant’s pocket, loosening the plastic rods that hold the roof into place, trying to ignore the way that even with Jack’s weight balancing out his, the porta-potty shakes with each movement he makes. 

It takes one, two, three kicks to loosen the dented roof and it falls. Takes far too long to thump against the ground, in Mac’s opinion. He cautiously leans towards the opening, hands splayed against the plastic, balancing precariously.  


“Oh. Great.” 

“What’s up, hoss?” Jack leans forward to take a look and the pre-fab building lists towards Mac.

“No, no,” Mac waves him back. “Stay there.” He swallows hard, then leans forward, peering over the edge. “We’re about, uh twenty, maybe thirty feet up in the air.” Mac swallows hard pulling himself back into the enclosure. “Looks like a beach below us.”

“What are we sitting on?”

“Can’t tell from here,” Mac shakes his head. He takes a deep breath looking around the small space. He bites his lip. Nothing. Even fewer options than at the mansion. 

Something soft bops him on the head and he turns, startled and annoyed towards Jack. 

“What was that?” 

“Supplies,” Jack says, lobbing another roll of toilet paper at his partner.

Mac shakes his head.

“Go on, do your thing. Make a parachute or a hang glider or somethin’.” 

Mac rubs the sheet between his fingers. “A prisoner escaped the Alameda County Courthouse making a rope out toilet paper.”

“Yeah? See, you ain’t the only brains of this organization.”

“Except it won’t work this time.”

“Cause it’s the cheap stuff? You gettin’ snooty about the ply count now? Gotten soft with the plush American style TP?”

“No, because it’s damp from the storm. It’s disintegrating between my fingers. Not a characteristic you want in a rope.”

“Not unless you’re a magician. Like a real one, not the illusionist type who is just trying to trick ya.”

“All magicians… you know, what never mind.”

“You’re telling me ya never tried to make a rope out of toilet paper before?”

Mac shrugs. “It’s never come up before.”

“It’d work though, right?”

“Maybe, if you could twist it tightly enough and braid it, even single ply might work, but that first step” Mac gestures to the hole, “is a doozy. We’re gonna have to jump at the same time so we don’t upset the balance and tip over. We don’t have enough toilet paper to make a rope strong enough to withstand the sudden drop of our combined weight without perforating. And definitely not enough to make two ropes.” 

“We gotta jump?”

“Unless you have any better ideas?”

Jack’s face screws up. “You didn’t happen to become one of those real magicians?”

“Sorry, big guy.”

“Alright, alright, so uh, one-two- and jump on three?”

Mac takes a deep breath and one more look around, hoping for something, anything that he might have missed before. He scoots back to meet Jack mostly in the middle, so they can move in sync. “Alright. One. Two.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jack says, snatching up the toilet paper rolls again. “Toss this out there for some extra padding.” At Mac’s incredulous look he continues. “What? Every little bit helps and I don’t know about you but I’m already bruised to hell. If it saves me even one itty bitty bruise then I’ll never complain about one-ply TP ever again.” 

Mac scoots back to the opening, unfurls the rolls, letting them drop in a heap on the ground. “How will you know if it saves you a bruise?”

“Oh, believe me, I’ll know.”

Mac shakes his head, letting the last of the paper drop. He eases himself back towards Jack, sitting on the balls of his feet in a crouch, readying to bolt.  


Jack extends his fist. Mac automatically reaches out bumping it lightly. Reflex. For luck. For the reassurance they survived this far. For the "you're not allowed to do dumb stuff without me."   


Mutually assured "kabooms."

“One. Two. Three.”

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

“Huh,” Jack mumbles as he slowly opens his eyes. The soothing sound of crashing waves tries lulling him back to sleep. Sunlight warms him and though his hand rubs along coarse sand, he’s comfortable. Blue skies overhead, brilliant, clear and somewhere that is not California. Or Texas, he admits reluctantly. Twin palm trees and a large plastic box wedged between them. 

“Mac,” Jack calls out, rolling over. His muscles seize at the action. He flops down against the beach again, breathing through the pain. 

He tries ignoring it, reaching out to the Mac sized space next to him, fingers closing around the warm black suit coat. Jack follows the arm down to its wrist, pressing firmly against the pulse he finds there. 

Mac groans. 

“Hey, buddy, you waking up?” Jack turns his head slowly. Cautiously. Getting a better look at his partner, half on his side, face in the sand. “Mac?”

Another groan in response. Mac sputters and wheezes as he inhales a mouthful of sand, shooting upright in surprise. Coughing and choking, bracing an arm across his chest. He hunches over, leaning heavily on his other arm. 

Jack struggles to sit up, ignoring the fit his back is throwing. He rubs Mac’s back in soothing circles, trying to calm the hacking cough.

Mac waves Jack off as the coughing subsides. Catching his breath, he sits up, one arm still protecting his ribs. He runs a hand through his hair, surveying their surroundings. Then he looks up. “Huh.” 

“My thoughts exactly, hoss,” Jack grimaces. “You okay?”

“Usually waking up on a beach involves fewer bruises,” Mac winces as he shifts position, squinting into the sunlight. 

“You’d think, but that hasn’t been my experience in the last ten years or so.” 

“Are you alright?”

The muscles in Jack’s back choose this moment to make their displeasure known again and Jack gives him a tight lipped nod. 

“You’re a liar,” Mac says scooting closer, eyes assessing “What’s wrong?”

Jack gives a pained chuckle. “Small muscle spasm. Just gotta get limbered up.” 

“How did you land? Should you be sitting up?” 

Jack attempts to wave off his concern. “I’m doing better’n you are with those broken ribs. You didn’t puncture somethin’ with all that coughin’ did ya?” He reaches out, pushing aside Mac’s tuxedo jacket.

“I’m fine, just bruised,” Mac shoves Jack’s hand away with a frown.

“Good, so am I. And as pretty as this beach is, we ain’t making it to ex-fil sitting here. Since no one is around to take our drink order, we might as well head out.” 

Jack takes a deep breath and struggles painfully to his feet, ignoring the pain that shoots through him. He lets out a relieved sigh when he manages to make it upright on his own. He turns, holding out a helping hand to Mac who eyes it for a moment before stubbornly ignoring it.

They take a minute, standing there, getting their sea legs back and pretending neither is breathing heavily from the exertion of rising. 

Jack claps a hand on Mac’s shoulder, studying him. Mac meets his eyes and gives a nod, before taking a breath and they begin the long, limping trek to ex-fil. 

* * *

Jack is reclined against the raised exam bed. An ice pack tucked behind his spasming back. He flinches against the bright light Reese flashes in his eyes. Once the blinding penlight is turned off he steals a glance at Mac, laying on the other bed. Bruises mar his chest and Mac sucks in a breath when the doc palpates them. 

“So, explain this to me again,” Dr. McClain asks. “How you decided to ride out a hurricane in a porta-potty.”

“It was take our chances out there, or stay inside with all the ladies and gents with guns. If we’d come back all shot full of holes you’d be complaining about that too,” Jack defends as Reese closes the cut on his chin with steristrips. 

She shudders and wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Hopefully, it hadn’t been used.”

“That’s not even the worst thing that wardrobe has had to get out of that tux. And since when are you so squeamish?” Jack teases. 

McClain presses his stethoscope to Mac’s chest and instructs him to take a deep breath. With a grimace, Mac obeys, hissing at the increased pressure his inhalation puts on his ribs. 

“To be fair, we made it through the storm with mild bruising and a pair of concussions. It was the jump out of the coconut tree that caused,” Mac gestures between himself and Jack, “this.” 

“Yeah, but we ended up being pretty lucky, anyway,” Jack says, nodding to the actual film x-rays hanging in the lightbox across the room. “We could have ended up with x-rays that look like those guys.”

“You are those guys,” McClain says, draping his stethoscope around his neck again and moving over to Jack’s bed.

Jack flinches, squinting at the lightbox. “Well, then we’re really lucky, having x-rays that look like that and still managed to drag ourselves down here under our own power. We can head home soon then?”

“Oh, yeah,” McClain agrees enthusiastically. 

“Really?” Jack asks sitting up straighter, noticing that Mac’s ears are perking up in surprise, excitement and wary of a trap.

“Soon is a relative term. You guys are going to be off duty for weeks. You’ll head home a lot sooner than that.”

Jack deflates a little. “Tomorrow?” 

“Let’s see how the rest of tonight goes,” McClain hedges. “And maybe if you promise to rest, and I mean really rest Mac, not take apart Bozer’s smoker, or try to shoot rubber ducks off the deck railing from the living room, Jack, and we can find someone willing to keep an eye on your guys, we’ll talk about tomorrow.”

“Mac, will you keep an eye on me? Make sure I’m not acting funny,” Jack asks. “The kid always acts funny but I know him well enough to tell when it’s just him being peculiar or a head injury acting up.” 

"Bozer and Riley are supposed to be home tomorrow night," Mac offers.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," McClain stays firm.

Casted and splinted, Jack’s arm strapped to his chest to limit the movement of his shoulder and Mac’s ankle in a boot and his forehead stitched, and a dose of pain medication for each one of them before they’re tucked into a double room for the night. 

Mac has the cover off his call light and is fiddling with the wires. “Sorry you’re stuck here.”

“Yeah, but I get it. McClain’s just being careful. I wouldn’t want to tell Matty that he let her two best agents go home and fall into a coma or something.” 

“I meant the whole porta-potty thing. I’m sorry I didn’t have a better idea for the storm or for getting out of the tree.”

Oh, yeah, their adrenaline-fueled argument as they hurtled through the storm like crash test dummies and Mac's distress.  


“Sometimes the material you need isn’t there. Like the time you wanted to create a controlled explosion as a distraction and ended up blowing out all the windows in the house. Just didn’t have the right equipment. That ain’t your fault.” 

“I don’t know that…”

“I do.”

“I should have thought of something better,” Mac shakes his head. “I should have--”

“Hey!” Jack interrupts Mac’s impending self-doubt spiral. “What’s with you today? If you didn’t have a better idea that means there wasn’t one.”

“‘There could have been. I just couldn’t think.”

“Pfft,” Jack blows out a breath. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. You couldn’t think.”

“I couldn’t. The picture came through on the phone and the order to terminate and my brain switched off. It was like… like…”

“Like you slummin’ with me in the brains department,” Jack teases.

“That’s not true. You’re not dumb,” Mac frowns. “I hate when you put yourself down like that.”

“Hmm, well, now you know how I feel about this conversation. We weren’t supposed to get made, but it happens. Seeing our pictures come through would have rattled anybody.”

“I panicked.”

Jack's eyebrows lower in concern. “That ain’t you, hoss. You don’t panic.”

"I guess I do sometimes." Mac picks at the wires in his hands.

Jack stays quiet, watching him. Waiting him out. His sniper patience wins.

“It was your picture,” Mac whispers, looking up at Jack through his eyelashes.

“Just me? You could have stayed in the house, tucked in all safe and secure?”

“They had your picture, Jack. They were going to kill you and I couldn’t find you or warn you. The only thing I could think was ‘save Jack. Save Jack.’ I panicked.”

“Aw, Mac…”

“You were in danger. I had no idea where you were. Or how quickly one of the general's men would recognize you. All I could think was getting you out of there, anything else was just background noise.” 

Jack rubs the stubble on his chin. “Hey, I trust you, hoss. Your brain never stops picking apart a problem until it’s satisfied, so if you didn’t see another option, maybe there wasn’t one.”

Mac doesn’t look convinced.

“But promise me, something like this comes up again, you won’t panic.” 

Mac rolls his eyes. “Okay,” his tone is facetious.

Jack pushes himself up, leaning on one elbow, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder and the shooting pain in his back, to look across at Mac in the other bed. “You don’t put yourself in danger because you’re worried about me.”

“We watch out for each other,” Mac argues. “You know, “kaboom” and all that.”

And that’s a whole other discussion that Jack is not getting into now. Or ever if he can help it. If Mac goes kaboom, Jack goes kaboom, but if the situation is reversed, there’s no way Jack is letting Mac follow him. Kid’s got too much life and world saving left to do, and Mac can yell at his headstone or his ashes and call him a hypocrite. All that matters is that he’s alive to do it. 

“I get that,” Jack says placatingly. “But I’m being serious here. If I’m in danger, you make sure you keep yourself safe. That’s your first priority… nah, nah, nah” Jack holds up a hand, warding off the argument. “My best and only chance of making it out is if you’re alive and undamaged to make sure I get out.”

Mac looks over at Jack suspiciously. 

"Even if I'm in danger, you take the time to make sure that you aren't gonna hurt yourself tryin' to rescue me. I can’t stand the thought that you might be laying in one of these beds because you were all worried about me. That you might be hurting because of me. Don’t do that, hoss. Don't make me live with that.” 

“I’m not promising that,” Mac shakes his head with a frown. “But I’ll promise to be careful.”

Jack snorts. 

Mac raises an eyebrow. “I guess you’ll just have to do a better job at staying out of trouble.”

* * *

Jack doesn't do a great job at staying out of trouble. It's not his fault they were sent back to New Orleans. He'd shaken the dust off his shoes when he'd kissed that town goodbye. Goodbye and good riddance. 

He should have killed off ol' Duke when he had the chance back then. 

Mac is sleeping.

Jack doesn’t know if he’s ever been more grateful for that. 

A soft snuffle punctuates each inhale. 

The dagger has already been shoved into his chest, and each one of Mac’s pained breaths twists the knife a little more. This is his fault. He feels like he could raze NOLA to the ground by himself. Katrina has nothing on Hurricane Jack.  


The room is dim. Equipment obscured by shadows. There's a light on over the sink in the nurse prep area, but the privacy curtain blocks most of it from reaching the patient in the bed. Jack can still make out Mac’s features. Despite sleep, despite the hefty dose of pain medication, his brow isn’t relaxed. Tension remains in the muscles around his mouth, pulling his lips into a frown. 

Tracks shimmer on his cheeks. 

If he were more solidly asleep, Jack would wipe them away. Smooth a hand over his tense forehead, card a hand through his hair, but Jack doesn’t want to risk waking him to a world of pain. 

He only drifted off moments ago.

Jack stayed with him. Hasn’t left his side since the moment he made a dumb joke about bucket lists and stuck his hand out for a “we survived” and “thanks for saving my life” fist bump that Mac automatically returned. 

Unthinking, until the brush of skin against skin sent Mac to the floor with a cry of pain. 

Jack’s heart stopped, hearing Mac cry out. He can still hear it echoing in his head. 

"That was a mistake," Mac's voice hoarse with pain. Collapsing to his knees, curled protectively around his hands, shaking and shuddering.

“Mac! Mac? What happened? What hurts?”

Mac shook his head. His face screwed up in a grimace, rocking back and forth. Each breath harsh and gasping. 

Jack put a soothing hand on Mac’s back, yelling for a medic.

“Come on, Mac, let me see,” Jack coaxed. “You’re scaring me, buddy.”

Instead of answering, Mac turned away, retching violently. The pain overwhelming every sense. The smell of burnt flesh. The crackle of the flames still licking the dry wood of the coffin, slowly putting itself out as it ran out of fuel. 

The door flung open by SWAT and Jack announced their location. It would be their luck to get shot by the local TAC team coming to rescue them.   


Jack’s focus remained on Mac. Ignoring the painful cough building in his throat and the way his singed boots stuck to his feet. Jack held onto Mac, rocking with him, swiping the kid’s hair from his sweaty face, holding him through painful, choking, dry heaves.  


“Where’s the damn medic?” Jack shouted again. Frustration and fear coloring his tone. Mac was hurting and Jack needed to _fix_ _it_.   


Mac flinched as the two-man crew arrived, dropping their bags next to him, curling deeper into himself, pushing harder against Jack.  


“Mac, you gotta let ‘em see, bud. They can’t help until they see the damage.”

Mac shakes his head. “Hurts, Jack. It hurt. I can’t.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry." He couldn't fix it. He couldn't stop Mac's hurt. "They’re gonna try to help you, hoss, but they gotta see those hands.”

By the time the sun crested the horizon, Mac’s hands were bathed, lightly wrapped with salve and the pain down to a dull roar. At least enough that Mac could form a coherent sentence.

His defenses down enough that he admitted to his panic. The overwhelming manta of “save Jack,” overriding any thought of self-preservation. Driving the car into a building, painful bruising across freshly healed ribs and his abdomen. Admitting that he couldn't think of anything he could build to rescue Jack from burning to death, resulting in burns that make Jack nauseated with regret and grief.  


Hours later, the thought of Mac standing in the middle of the crematorium, mind spinning frantically while he circles the room searching for a solution that's not there, reminding Jack of the look on Mac’s face at the gala for the Micronesian government. The fear and desperation before plunging his hands into the flames still makes Jack feel like dry heaving. 

He held Mac as the medics worked his leather jacket from his shoulders so they could administer a shot of pain medication. Rocking with him, back and forth until the pain subsided enough to make their way unsteadily from the crematorium and to the ambulance.

He held Mac the whole flight home, trying to tamp down on his feelings, and way he seethed with anger at seeing Mac in so much pain. Running a hand through Mac’s hair as the kid whimpered in his sleep and forced himself to relax so his emotions didn’t bleed through to Mac.

He held Mac through the bedside debridement of dead, blackened skin in Phoenix Medical. Tears in his eyes, and tracks on his cheeks that match Mac’s, he swears his heart stopped during the procedure. The pain medication barely making a dent once they went to work on the fragile fingers.

Jack never thought of them as fragile before. Strong. Skillful. Sensitive, maybe, but never fragile. They saved his life today. Saved his life more than once. Saved the world. And Jack couldn't save them.   


In a pair of surgical scrubs, he sits at the head of Mac’s bed, keeping both gloved hands on Mac’s shaking shoulders. 

His back aches and it has little to do with the trunk he was shoved into or the pine box he nearly died in. Still healing shoulder and back muscles rigid and taut, trying to keep himself and Mac quiet and calm. Trying not to flinch away from the scalpel cutting away dead tissue.   


Whispering nothing words through the mask that covered his mouth. Words that he hoped were comforting, distracting, into the shell of Mac’s ear. He thinks they were mostly apologies. Probably empty promises and lies that Jack will keep him safe. He wonders how many times he lied to the kid's face about that. How many more times he'll lie, promise to protect him, promise that nothing will happen to the kid on his watch because it makes himself feel better.   


His eyes drift from Mac’s face to his loosely wrapped hand resting on pillows and they fill with tears again. 

He can’t even begin to fathom how he can repay Mac for what he did. Risking his hands,  _ his hands _ , to pull Jack’s bacon out of the fire. 

Sticking his hands into the flames and pulling Jack back from hell itself. 

He was sure this was it. If anyone could save him it would be Mac, but this time...  


Mac would never stop looking, but Jack was sure it would be too late. That he’d be a pile of ashes. Maybe Mac could scoop him up and bring him home. Put him next to the cigar box that holds Jack’s pop’s dog tags. Maybe tuck his tags in with his dad’s. Or keep him in the GTO or the Stingray and take Jack with him on road trips, and out to visit his pop.   


Mac sniffles, shifting against the pillows, the furrow in his brow deepening. Pulling Jack from his thoughts. He cards his fingers through Mac’s hair, shushing him quietly, trying to ease him into a deeper sleep and away from the pain that will come when he wakes. There’s more than enough time for that tomorrow.

And the next day.

And the day after.

The outline of Mac’s treatment plan makes Jack’s heart seize. 

He’ll be a prisoner in Medical for a week just for aggressive hydration, antibiotics and pain medication, all through his multiple IV lines. Maybe longer.

That’s not even taking into account the twice daily dressing changes. Or more frequently as he needs them. Jack will be there for all of them, even if it kills him.   


They tell him it’s good that it’s painful. It means he didn’t destroy the sensitive and shallow nerves in his hands. Maybe he won’t lose as much function as they fear. Maybe.

Jack covers his mouth, trying to hold back a sob that wants to break free. 

Hands are tricky. It doesn’t take much to damage them irreparably. Tendons and nerves and so few layers between them and the outside world. Leaving them rife for catastrophic injury and crippling pain. 

And the morbid, pessimistic part of Jack’s brain worries that he’ll never again see these fingers fly through creating, building, disarming and saving.

Jack’s thumb strokes across Mac’s temple. His fever is creeping up again, adding to his restlessness. 

“You weren’t supposed to do this again, hoss. You weren’t supposed to panic,” Jack says gently, quietly so he doesn't wake Mac. “You remember our bargain?”

Mac frowns in his sleep. 

“I know, you said you didn’t promise that, but I’m really gonna need you to promise. I can’t stand to see you hurting like this.”

Mac grunts.

“Shh. Shh. I know, bud. That’s not fair of me, is it? But that’s the way it is.  Seeing you hurting is worse than anything anyone could do to me.” Jack brushes both hands against his eyes, wiping away stray tears.

Mac shuffles, searching for Jack. For comfort. 

"Guess you’re right, I’m gonna need to do a better job at keeping us both out of trouble." Tears shine in Jack's eyes. He rests one hand on Mac's shoulder, the other smoothing through his hair. "We'll get through this too, Mac. Together."  


At Jack's touch, Mac's breathing deepens and slows. Jack's continued presence and maybe his promise allowing Mac to relax his guard. It makes Jack's heart burst, the level of trust Mac places on him, to protect him, to keep him safe. 

Jack brushes a kiss to Mac's temple. "I got ya, hoss. You just rest now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In an interview, George told a story of his follow up appointment after his spinal surgery where he saw some x-rays hanging up and said "it could be worse, I could be that guy!"  
> And his surgeon replied "you are that guy."
> 
> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it!


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